Chapter Six

Seventeen days of ornery steers and flies and saddle sores and rocky beds. Seventeen days of waiting and still no sign of Statler. And seventeen days without Rachel. Cole was feeling about as sociable as an old sow grizzly stuck in a rusty bear trap when the Kid rode up to him in camp that afternoon.

As usual, the Kid was grinning ear to ear. His golden hair wasn’t quite as pretty as he liked to keep it, owing to the long hours he’d been working lately, and his clothes were dusty and sweat-stained, but he still managed to look dapper enough to set Cole’s teeth on edge. What in the hell did the young pup have to look so happy about?

The Kid swung one leg over his saddle horn and pulled out his Bull Durham sack. “A fellow could get mighty tired of looking at the back end of a steer,” he commented cheerfully as he rolled himself a smoke.

“Kicking won’t get you anywhere unless you’re a mule,” Cole informed him sourly, squinting out at where the herd grazed peacefully.

“You think this is a good place to make a stand?” the Kid asked, ignoring Cole's grouch.

“Good as any,” Cole grunted, giving a cursory look around. He’d chosen the camp specifically because it was on high ground and had lots of cover.

“Hope you’re right,” the Kid remarked with elaborate casualness.

Something in his voice brought Cole’s head around.

The Kid’s grin broadened. “Francesco’s been signaling for five minutes,” he said, nodding in the direction of one of their sentries.

Sure enough, a series of mirror flashes told him that about fifteen men were approaching rapidly. “Why the hell didn’t you say something?” Cole shouted, running for his horse.

“I thought I just did,” the Kid remarked to no one in particular, since Cole was already gone.

Cole began shouting instructions that were largely unnecessary. The other men had also seen the signal and were moving into the positions Cole had previously assigned them. The cook began unloading spare rifles and ammunition from the chuck wagon and stacking them where they could be easily reached. Watching all the preparations with satisfaction, Cole checked the loads in his own rifle.

This was what he’d been waiting for, and he felt his blood surge with the familiar excitement. This was his chance to prove himself to Rachel once and for all, to show her that she had made a good choice. He pulled up at his own appointed station and swung down from his horse. Tying the animal securely to a scruffy bush, he crouched down in the rocks to wait, his eyes scanning the horizon.

The shots came from his left, much sooner than he had expected and from the wrong direction. Swinging around, he took in the whole scene. It had been a trick, a lousy trick, but it was too late now. Even as he grudgingly acknowledged the brilliance of Statler’s plan, he cursed and dove for cover.

One lone rider had sneaked past their sentries. Waving what appeared to be an animal skin—Cole guessed it to be a freshly killed wild cat of some kind—that rider was sending the herd into a panicked run, right toward the camp!

One of his men had spotted the rider and fired, but it was like trying to stop an avalanche. The ground shook as the thundering hooves churned the ground, and faintly, as if from a great distance, Cole heard the pop of more gunshots. Statler and his men had arrived. They would finish off whoever was left after the stampede. Yes, it was a brilliant plan.

Seventeen days, Rachel thought with disgust as she pulled the brush through her thick, dark hair. At least the day was over, though, and she could go to bed now. Once she fell asleep, a process that was becoming increasingly difficult with each passing day, the hours would fly by and then she would begin the horrible waiting all over again.

The odd numbered days were the hardest. Every other day, Cole sent two men from camp to spell the two men he had left guarding the ranch. This system served the dual purpose of providing her with news on the progress of the roundup and of giving each of the men a periodic rest. Unfortunately, Cole himself was never one of the two men who came.

She should have known it would be like that. Cole would be thinking about the welfare of his men, but would never consider taking a day off for himself. No, he had to be there in case Statler’s men attacked. Even Miles was allowed a turn at leisure, but not Cole.

Sighing, Rachel laid her brush down and rose from her dressing table. It was very late. Maybe tonight she’d be able to fall asleep quickly. She was just untying the sash of her robe when she heard the horses.

At first she thought she was imagining it. Running to the window, she peered out into the darkness but could see nothing. Waiting, her heart pounding a tattoo against her ribs, she watched. Finally, they were there, men and horses, filling the ranch yard. She could hear them more then see them. Their shapes made darker patterns in the already dark night, and they kept their voices low. Someone lit a lantern, but she could not identify anyone in the grotesque shadows that it cast.

Was the front door locked? Not that it would make any difference, of course. If they wanted in, they would break the door down, but still she raced to the front room to see. She was too late. She could hear the tramp of boots across the porch, an unfamiliar step, and knew that he would reach the door before she would.

“Who is?”

Lupe’s voice came to her from the shadows at the far side of the room.

“I don’t know,” she replied, her voice trembling slightly. If she only had a gun... A gun! She did have a gun! The derringer was lying on the table beside her bed. For one agonizing second she cursed herself for forgetting it, but even before she could think to go after it, the door opened and he was there.

“Cole!”

Flinging herself into his arms, she felt him stagger slightly from the impact, but he recovered instantly and his arms closed around her. He smelled of horses and sweat, but she didn’t care. He felt good, so solid and so strong. “Thank God you’re all right!” she whispered fervently against his chest.

Cole himself was thanking God as he stood holding her, running his hands over the silken length of her hair and inhaling the fresh scent of roses. This is the way he had dreamed it would be, Rachel in his arms and glad to be there.

He’d come home. Closing his eyes, he savored the sensation.

After a long time, he thought to tell her why he was here, although he knew from her reaction that she must have guessed. He pushed her slightly away so that she looked up at him. Framing her face in his hands, he gave her the news he knew she had been waiting for: “It’s all over.”

She had guessed as much, but hearing the words spoken aloud gave her a wondrous joy, and she smiled up at him. The smile lasted only a second. In the faint light that shone from her bedroom doorway, she now saw the lines of fatigue that etched his face and noticed for the first time the way his shoulders sagged and remembered once again the lateness of the hour. She remembered, too, the unfamiliar footsteps she had heard, Cole’s pace slowed by fatigue.

“You must be exhausted,” she decided, sliding reluctantly from his arms. “Sit down, I’ll fetch a light,” she told him, scurrying off to retrieve the lamp from her room.

When she returned, she saw that he had removed his hat and the heavy leather vest he had been wearing and had slumped down in the wing chair by the fireplace. Setting the lamp on a table nearby, she went to him. “Can I get you anything? Are you hungry?”

The clank of a tray hitting a tabletop made them both jump. Lupe eyed their reaction with disdain. The tray contained a steaming cup of coffee and a plate with three thick sandwiches on it. “Food,” she explained unnecessarily.

Rachel gave her a grateful smile. In the excitement, she had forgotten all about Lupe, but as usual Lupe had not forgotten about them. Once she had seen that it was Cole who had come, she had gone about her business.

Cole gratefully picked up the coffee and took a long swallow. Then his startled gaze found the old woman grinning that toothless, knowing grin. The witch had put a shot of whiskey in the coffee, bless her shriveled little heart, and he found himself grinning back. “Thanks,” he mumbled, picking up one of the sandwiches and thinking maybe, just maybe, Lupe wasn’t so bad after all. Lupe muttered something incomprehensible and disappeared again.

Rachel waited patiently while Cole disposed of the sandwich in a few giant bites, and then she could stand it no more. “What happened?” she demanded, pulling over the three-legged footstool and perching on it.

Cole chewed the last bite slowly and then washed it down with some coffee, enjoying the sight of her. She looked almost like a little girl, squatting on the stool like that, with her hair loose and her knees drawn up and her eyes all big and expectant. Almost, but not quite. He would have preferred to have her sitting in his lap, but he was much too dirty for that. For now, he’d have to be satisfied with just looking at her. With a small sigh of regret, he began his story.

“Statler tricked us. We had sentries out, and one of them spotted Statler and his men heading for us from the north. We were all ready for them, except, like 1 said, he tricked us. They'd sent one man around behind the herd. He had a freshly killed cougar skin—we found it later—and he waved it at the herd.”

Rachel’s gasp told him he did not have to explain. She knew what the scent of a wild cat would do to a herd of cattle.

“They ran right over our camp, and then Statler and his men rode in right behind them,” he continued, the evenness of his voice conveying the horror of it more vividly than melodramatics could have done. “I reckon Statler figured they’d just throw some dust over what was left of us and ride off with the herd.” Rachel nodded her understanding, wondering how such a perfect plan had gone awry.

“Luckily, all the men had their horses nearby, and some of them managed to climb on and ride out the stampede. The rest of us just hunkered down and covered our heads.”

“You were in the middle of it?” Rachel asked, fear clawing at her heart even though she knew that he could not have been hurt since he was sitting right here in front of her.

He nodded, his mouth stretching into a mirthless grin. “I was in some rocks, so I was pretty safe. They went all around me, though. One even went right over top.” He made an arching motion with his hand to illustrate the flight of the steer and watched in fascination as her dark eyes grew round. He’d never told a story like this to such an appreciative audience, and he began to warm to the task.

“Somehow, I reckon because we were all dug in for the fight, not one of our men got trampled. Statler wasn’t figuring on that, though, so he and his men just came riding into our camp as bold as you please.”

Rachel leaned forward on her stool and placed one hand on his knee. Her eyes never left his face, so he was pretty sure she didn’t even know she’d done it. He did, though. Her tiny hand was burning a hole right through the denim and up his thigh. He had just realized that under that robe she was only wearing her nightdress and under that he knew she’d be wearing only Rachel. Swallowing past a sudden tightness in his throat, he tried to sound normal as he continued his story.

“None of our men even knew if anybody else was still alive, but almost like we’d planned it, everybody just reared up and started shooting. We got them in a crossfire, so even though there were only four of us left, it was like shooting fish in a barrel. They panicked and took off in all directions, the ones who still could, but our men—the ones who’d ridden away from the stampede—swung back and picked them up. A few of them got away, but the ones that didn’t won’t be rustling anybody’s cattle again.”

There, that told her that they were all dead. He wouldn’t bother to explain that not all of them had died from gunshot wounds, that he and the men had hanged the survivors. She already looked shocked enough.

He did have some important news for her, though. “We found out who killed your father.” He watched the pain cloud her eyes for a moment before she overcame it, waiting bravely for the information. “It was that fellow Kirk. You remember, the one who ambushed me and Miles? The one who got killed?”

Rachel nodded. “How did you find out?”

Cole shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to explain exactly how they had managed to obtain the information. “We talked to some of the men who didn’t... who were still alive. Kirk had some help, a couple others, but they’re all in hell now, too,” he concluded grimly.

Rachel nodded again, tears fogging her eyes. It was small comfort to know that her father’s murderers had gotten their punishment. She supposed that was because no punishment could ever bring Sean McKinsey back to life. For one awful moment, grief at her terrible loss almost overwhelmed her, but she remembered just in time that she need no longer bear it alone. Instinctively, she moved toward Cole, up and into his lap, where she knew she would find solace.

Cole muttered something about being awfully dirty, but she ignored him, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his shoulder. His arms embraced her, as if to shelter her from the hurt, and they did. She sat like that for several minutes until he had absorbed all her pain, and the threat of tears had passed. Her father was gone, but she still had Cole, and thank God, he was safe and sound and out of danger.

Then she remembered one other important item of business, something Cole had not mentioned yet. “Statler’s dead, too, then?’ she asked, lifting her head to see Cole’s face. She thought she knew the answer, but Cole’s suddenly grim expression disabused her of that notion.

“He was hit,” he said slowly, absently stroking her hair in a gesture of comfort. Cole knew the old bastard was hit because he was the one who had shot him. Got him right in the brisket, too. He’d never been so sure of anything in his life, but they just hadn’t been able to find a body. “He was hit,” he repeated, “but he got away. We never did find him.”

Rachel straightened in his arms. “Didn’t you go to his ranch? Surely, that’s where he’d go if he was hurt.”

He had thought of that, of course. “Yeah, after we finished up at the camp, we rode into town and picked up the marshal. We wanted everything legal, with witnesses and everything. But when we got to Statler’s place, everybody’d gone. I guess somebody who’d got away had warned the rest of his men, and they’d run for it.”

“But what about Statler?” she asked, worry lines creasing her forehead.

Cole reached out one long finger to smooth them away. She didn’t need to worry anymore. She had him to take care of her now. “Statler might have got away, but he won’t last long. He was hurt bad, and he’s got no place to go, nobody to take care of him. You won’t be seeing him again, honey.” Honey. The endearment washed over her in sweet waves, and for just a heartbeat she sat perfectly still and savored the sensation. Then she lifted her mouth to his. He was tender at first, almost tentative, but not for long. Her lips parted at his encouragement, his arms crushed her to him, as if he would never let her go. The kiss went on and on, tongues mating, hands clinging, breaths mingling. Neither of them noticed Lupe until she cleared her throat.

They both jumped guiltily, coming up from the kiss with a jolt. Lupe observed them without batting an eye. “You bath, he is ready,” she informed Cole.

Cole briefly considered telling the old bat what she could do with her bath, but then he recalled that he was probably pretty rank, having ridden more miles that day than he cared to remember. He didn’t want anything to spoil what he had planned for the rest of the evening, so he supposed he’d better get cleaned up. “Yeah, thanks,” he replied with some graciousness.

Rachel watched the exchange with resignation, but waited until Lupe had gone before sliding reluctantly from Cole’s lap. He stood a little stiffly, and she pretended not to notice the bulge in his pants.

“Yeah, well,” he began, knowing he needed to go but also hating to leave Rachel. “I won’t be long,” he promised finally.

“Good,” she replied. She almost asked if he wanted her to wash his back, but thought better of it. The things she had planned for the rest of the night were going to be shocking enough, so she simply folded her hands in front of her and gave him a smile full of promises.

He blinked. “Not long at all,” he repeated, and hustled himself off to his bedroom.

Half an hour later Lupe returned for the tray and found Rachel huddled in the big chair, still waiting. The old woman clicked her tongue in disapproval and chewed Rachel out in rapid-fire Spanish.

“I can’t just walk in on him,” Rachel defended herself.

Lupe did not even dignify such an inane remark with a reply. Sniffing indignantly, she moved swiftly over to a sideboard cabinet. Throwing open the door, she reached in and came up with a bottle of whiskey and a glass. “Take him this,” she ordered, thrusting the items at Rachel.

Rachel took them obediently, but still she hesitated. He had promised to hurry but maybe he’d changed his mind. After all, he was exhausted.

Lupe made an exasperated sound and muttered something like “Stupid gringos.” Rachel stiffened her spine and turned resolutely on her heel. They were married, after all, she decided. There was no reason on God’s earth why she shouldn’t see him taking a bath!

Still, her ingrained breeding forced her to tap very lightly on his bedroom door before going in. She waited a moment, and when she did not receive a reply, she grew suddenly alarmed. Throwing open the door, she stepped inside.

She might have laughed at the sight that met her eyes if she hadn’t been so relieved. Cole was still in the tub, his long legs drawn up to accommodate himself to the hip bath, big knees splayed wide, and he was sound asleep.

Smiling and feeling very much like a voyeur, Rachel closed the door softly behind her and tiptoed across the floor until she stood beside the tub. He had washed his hair and the wet locks were slicked straight back from his face, looking almost black in the flickering lamplight. Beads of water glistened on his face and chest, clinging to his eyelashes and curling the mat of hair that furred his chest. She indulged herself, studying the way the brown of his face and neck ended abruptly where his shirt had shielded his skin from the relentless sun. Then she examined his arms, the corded muscles that looked powerful even in repose, the bronzed hands that had fought for her today but which could love her gently, too.

Delicious shivers teased the backs of her legs, and she shifted from one foot to the other, taking care not to drop the bottle that trembled in her suddenly nerveless fingers. Then there were his legs, that part of him that she had never seen. Dark hairs curled over the knees that stuck awkwardly out of the water, and a rider's muscles slabbed the thighs that were only partly visible. She knew a wicked urge to run her fingers down those thighs and under the water, but she resisted, deciding that was probably not the best way to wake him up.

“Cole,” she whispered. He did not move. “Cole,” she repeated, more loudly.

He awoke with a startled grunt, blinking at her a few times to get his bearings. She knew the instant that he realized where he was because he closed his knees with a slap that sent water sloshing everywhere. She knew a moment’s guilt for embarrassing him. Only a moment’s, though. His modesty was wasted since the water had been much too murky for her to see anything important. Unfortunately.

“Lupe thought you might like this,” she explained, holding up the glass and bottle.

“I guess I fell asleep,” he explained unnecessarily, passing a wet hand over his face. He’d only intended to close his eyes for a minute. The water had felt so good, and he was so warm, that he guessed the day had caught up with him.

Neither of them moved for a few seconds, and then Rachel realized that he couldn’t very well move from where he was. Glancing around, she noticed a stack of towels that Lupe must have laid out for him. She set the bottle and glass on the washstand and handed him a towel.

He murmured his thanks and ran it over his face and head, drying and mussing his hair at the same time. Then he made a few swipes at his chest before looking up to find her staring at him.

With a slight sense of disappointment that he wasn’t about to stand up with her watching, she handed him another towel and discreetly turned her back, wandering over to the bed where she made a great show of turning back the covers.

The splash told her when he had risen, and she caught her breath, closing her eyes against the vision of long, lean flanks. She knew them by touch, knew just what they looked like although she had never actually seen. He really was a beautiful man, she knew he was. Still a little on the thin side, but beautiful nevertheless. Now that she would have him home, all to herself, she would set about fattening him up. Then she wondered, with a small wicked smile, if making love to her at night would keep him thin in spite of her efforts.

Cole toweled off as quickly as he could. It was a job, since his steeped muscles were refusing to respond. He glanced around, but the only clothes within reach were the filthy ones he had discarded, and he couldn’t very well put them back on. The rest of his things were tucked away in the bureau right behind where Rachel was standing. He didn’t own such a thing as a nightshirt or even a robe, so for lack of anything better, he knotted a towel around his waist.

“Did you find anything at Statler’s house?” Rachel asked out of the blue. “Any evidence that he was behind the rustling, I mean?”

She didn’t turn around when she spoke, but continued to fuss with the bedclothes and fluff the pillows. Her hair was loose. He’d never actually seen it loose like that, brushed smooth. It reached all the way to her waist and it was shining in the lamplight. “We didn’t find anything but an empty cash box. Somebody’d burned all his papers in the fireplace. The ashes were there but nothing that we could make anything of,” his mouth said. His mind was elsewhere; under Rachel’s nightdress, to be exact. He took a step toward her.

Hearing that step, Rachel turned around. “That’s too bad,” her lips said. Her mind was elsewhere, though. Damn that towel, she thought. His legs were so long and straight. Her mouth went dry and all the moisture in her body seemed to collect in one central place.

Rachel gave a small, nervous laugh to cover skittering emotions. “You’d better get in bed. You’ll catch your death,” she chided, hoping she sounded wifely and concerned instead of eager and wanton. He might have called her “honey,” but he hadn’t yet said he loved her. Until then, she couldn’t let him know how much she loved him back.

“Yeah,” he agreed, only too glad to move toward her. But she stepped back from the bed, out of his way as he approached. He could tell from the way her hands were fiddling with the front of her robe that she was nervous, and he wondered why. It wasn’t like they’d never done this before.

Then he realized what it must be. She was nervous because the light was still lit. She’d never seen him in the altogether like this, and she must be pretty overwhelmed. To make matters worse, he was beginning to feel a very familiar sensation that told him not all the muscles in his body had been totally relaxed by that bath. If he didn’t get under the covers pretty quick, he might just scare her to death.

With as much haste as was seemly, he turned his back to Rachel and climbed into bed, pulling up the covers with a sigh of relief.

Rachel watched in confusion. She’d been so certain that he would take her in his arms, that he’d lift her onto the bed, that he’d kiss her passionately and pick right up where he'd left off when Lupe had interrupted them with the bath. For a minute, she didn’t know quite what to make of it. Was he too tired to make love to her? Had he realized that now, and was he trying to get out of it gracefully? Well, she wouldn’t throw herself at him, much as she wanted to. She would give him a few more minutes, though, just in case.

“I’ll hang that towel up for you,” she offered, holding out her hand.

He needed a minute to recall just which towel she was referring to, and another minute to unwrap it from his hips and free it from the tangle of sheets.

Rachel accepted it gingerly, knowing it was warm from his body and resisting the urge to hold it close. She went over to the washstand and hung it up, and there she noticed the whiskey bottle which had been her excuse for coming in the first place.

“I forgot all about your drink,” she exclaimed, thrilled to have an excuse not only to stay a little longer but to go back over to the bed. She snatched up the bottle and glass and took them to him.

She had the cork halfway out of the bottle when he said, “I don’t need a drink, Rachel.”

Her head came up, disappointment clearly written across her face. “Oh,” she said, pushing the cork back in. She set the bottle down, not knowing what else to do.

Why didn’t she come to bed? What was she stalling around for? Cole shifted under the covers, lifting one knee to make a tent over his loins that would hide the evidence of his impatience.

Rachel watched him. He had the funniest expression on his face. He looked awfully uncomfortable. Maybe he couldn’t wait for her to leave. “Are you very tired?” she asked in one last attempt.

He stared at her a long moment as he finally realized why she had not yet come to bed. Now he remembered what it was that irritated him about her. It was her damn manners. He grinned slowly, a grin that was part self-mockery and part teasing. “I’m getting damn tired of waiting for you to come to bed,” he growled, reaching out to snare one delicate hand and reel her in.

“Oh!” she said, a small startled sound as she stumbled forward. “Well, why didn’t you just say so?” she asked indignantly as he drew her inexorably across his lap.

Cole almost replied that he just had said so, but then he recalled another, similar conversation he had had earlier in the day along the same lines. With that memory had come another, of what had happened afterward, and for one awful moment, the faces appeared, the faces of dead men, old ones and new ones and Statler’s most of all. But then Rachel was there and her nightdress was gone and so were the faces.

Will Statler came back. Cole’s bullet had glanced off a rib so that the wound that had looked so serious hadn’t been serious at all. He had more men with him this time, lots more men. Some were new and some were old and some were the dead ones that Cole had buried.

They came to the ranch and Cole was there alone with Rachel. They shot him, again and again. He didn’t feel any pain, but he could see the wounds and the blood, his blood, pouring out. Statler was laughing and saying that now he would have everything, the ranch and the cattle and most of all Rachel. Statler was holding her and then he laughed again and tried to kiss her. She fought him. She was crying and calling to Cole, calling his name, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t help her because he was dead. He was dead, and he couldn’t move, but he could see it all, Statler with his hands on Rachel and Rachel crying and calling him.

“Cole! Cole!”

Rachel’s hands were shaking him and her voice cut through the fog. Gradually, the dream faded, leaving behind only the horror of it. He could just barely make out her face in the pale moonlight that bathed the room. “Rachel?” he asked, reaching for her.

“Yes, I’m here. What is it? What were you dreaming?” Concern threaded her voice, anxious hands stroked his face as she came into his arms. She had been afraid at first, having awakened to his thrashing and his muttered words of alarm. Then she had realized that he was having a nightmare, was perhaps reliving the horror of the day. She had wondered earlier at his ability to tell her the story so calmly, to pass off the danger and death he had faced as if it had been nothing. Now she knew he felt the same revulsion she did over the killing, but he had been hiding that emotion from her.

Or attempting to. Now, of course, she held his sweat-dampened body against hers and she knew the truth. “It was just a dream,” she soothed as he pulled her down to him.

He knew that, of course. It wasn’t the first time such dreams had haunted him when men had died at his hand. It was, however, the first time he had had Rachel there to comfort him. He found her lips with his, lifting her so that her small, slim body rested on top of his, her hair falling down in an ebony curtain around them, blacker than the darkness and redolent of roses.

One of his hands tangled in the silken skein, the other slid down the length of her to cup her buttocks. She felt so good under his hands that for a moment just touching her was enough. The moment was short-lived, however, and soon touching was not nearly enough. She moved against his swelling desire, and he responded instinctively, reaching both hands down to lift her to him. He swallowed her gasp of surprise and gave back a sigh of contentment as she settled around him.

At first Rachel lay still, adjusting to a thousand new sensations, but then his hands urged her, encouraged her, and she realized that this wasn’t so very different from the other way. She began to move in the now-familiar rhythm, timidly at first, but with increasing confidence, enjoying the freedom of her new position. Rewarded by his moans of pleasure, Rachel tested her power, setting a slower pace than he ever had. Their earlier coupling had been quick, even quicker than usual. After their long separation, neither had had the patience or the ability to prolong it. As pleasant as that encounter had been, it had not come close to satisfying two weeks’ worth of need.

This time things would be different. The edge of their desire had been blunted, their bodies rested by a few hours of sleep. And Rachel was in charge.

She moved on him with agonizing slowness, allowing the length of her body to slide along his with each tantalizing stroke. Iron hands gripped her hips, trying to force her to move faster, but she resisted, coaxing those hands to her breasts instead. Teasing, tormenting, again and again she brought him to the brink, but each time she sensed he was about to fall, she stopped, holding him there until she felt him relax. Then she would start again.

Once she heard him murmur, “Witch,” but she knew there was no malice in the epithet. He was much stronger than she. He could take control whenever he wanted. His submission was completely voluntary, but that knowledge only made her dominance more exciting. Knowing that at any moment he might wrest back his supremacy was intoxicating.

Drunk now with her own power, she grew relentless, turning teasing into torture. How long he might have borne such torture, she never learned, however. In her megalomania, she had forgotten to account her own weakness. As she tormented him, she also tormented herself.

The warmth that came from giving kindled the fires of desire. As his passion mounted, so did her own. It grew within her, burning brighter, blazing hotter, raging out of control until it consumed her. The spasms caught her unaware, rippling upward and outward, molten and delicious, and they triggered his own. She collapsed as he shuddered under her, letting those shudders ripple through her, doubling her pleasure.

They lay together like that for a long time, lazy hands stroking here and there, breaths mingling, bodies cooling and calming. At last Rachel smiled against his skin, recalling what had started all of this in the first place.

“What were you dreaming about?” she asked sleepily.

Cole drew in a breath and let it out slowly. He had felt her smile and smiled back, although he knew she could not see it. “I was dreaming about what we just did,” he lied, loath to tell her the truth and shatter the mood.

Her languid body became alert at his “confession,” and she raised her head in a vain attempt to make out his expression. “You were having a nightmare about that?” she asked skeptically.

“Sure,” he insisted. “I was dreaming that I wanted to and you didn’t. That for damn sure qualifies as a nightmare.”

Laughter bubbled from her throat, gurgling and splashing all around him, drowning all lingering specters from the past and washing him clean. God, he felt wonderful, lying there, holding her, with her hair making a sweet, silken web all around them. He belonged here, now. He’d earned the right to possess her, and he’d even made her care about him, a little bit, anyway. Life was good.

His laughter joined hers, startling her into a moment of silence. But only a moment. Her joy soon gurgled out again at the sound of his happiness. She had never heard him laugh so unrestrainedly before, and soon they were both convulsed, clinging together under the tangle of bedclothes until sheer exhaustion quieted them into a huddled quivering mass of pure delight.

Long after Rachel slept, Cole lay awake. He could not bear to close his eyes just yet, not when all his dreams were coming true right before them. Dreams were funny things, he mused. On that last night, just before he’d left to start the roundup, he’d dreamed that Rachel had told him she loved him. At least, he’d thought it was a dream. Now he wasn’t so sure. She hadn’t exactly said that she loved him tonight, but she’d certainly made him think it. Why else would she have done what she had done?

She might have done it because she was grateful, of course. She knew he’d risked his life for her today, and she might simply have been rewarding him by giving him what she knew he liked. And giving him what she thought he had earned. But giving had made her happy, too. He knew from the way she had laughed at what he now realized was his off-color joke. He never should have teased her about a thing like that, but in the dark he had a tendency to forget that Rachel was a lady. In fact, Rachel seemed to have the same tendency. He planned to encourage that inclination.

Cole smiled in the dark, knowing full well that a man who’d lived the life Cole Elliot had lived had no business lying here in bed with Rachel McKinsey. It was a very large miracle that she’d ever been desperate enough to think she needed him. He’d proven that he could take care of her, though. He’d gotten rid of Statler and that threat, and now she was safe. In doing so, he had made her care for him as a man, too. He could still see the look on her face when she had realized he was safe, could still feel the way she had held him those first few moments in the parlor.

But now, in the peaceful afterglow of their lovemaking, Cole had the leisure to remember that the job of saving the Circle M was not yet over. In fact, another, very real danger threatened, a danger of which only Cole was aware. Unless they managed to sell off the cattle that had stampeded today, there simply would not be a Circle M in a few short months. Back when he had been trying to avoid Rachel, Cole had spent several of his evenings examining the ledger books. A conference with Mr. McKinsey’s banker had confirmed Cole’s worst suspicions: paying a crew of professional gunmen had drained most of McKinsey’s reserves. They needed some cash money and quick.

That meant a cattle drive. The herd of steers they had rounded up would have to be rounded up again and driven to Kansas and sold. With the price of beef being what it was, they’d clear a small fortune, even after paying off the men with a bonus thrown in. Without Statler to worry about, getting those cattle to market would be a downhill slide. Once again, Cole would pull Rachel’s iron out of the fire.

Except... Cole frowned in the darkness. Who could he entrust with such an important job? Many things could happen to a herd of cattle between here and Kansas, and even more things could happen to the money they would bring when sold, the money that was so vital to Rachel’s future. Not that Cole was afraid to trust the men with that amount of money. They had all more than proven their loyalty to the brand, and he knew they would get the herd through and the money back here or die trying. That was just the trouble. Sometimes things happened that simply weren’t a man’s fault. What if one of his friends lost the money somehow? How could he ask someone else to take a responsibility like that?

Rachel stirred, murmuring something in her sleep. He drew her closer to his side and she quieted, cuddling contentedly against him. For a while, he just held her like that, not even letting himself consider his alternatives. He knew, deep in his soul, that taking care of Rachel was the most important job he had ever done, and that getting rid of Statler was only the beginning. If he wanted to be sure that the ranch kept operating, insuring Rachel’s future, someone had to take that cattle north. As much as he hated to even consider it, that someone would have to be Cole Elliot. He simply could not ask anyone else to accept such a burden.

The trip would be a long one, two or three months at least, and Cole wanted to groan just thinking about leaving Rachel for that long. His only consolation was in knowing that he was doing exactly what needed to be done, exactly what Mr. McKinsey would expect him to do. When he got back, they’d be all set, and he would never have to leave her again. And he would have proven to Rachel once again that she’d gotten a good deal when she’d tied up with him. He’d show her that he had even more to offer than his gun. The thought provided him with a small measure of comfort against the lonely months that stretched ahead.